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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23748556">Winter Winds</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingstarsinthesky/pseuds/writingstarsinthesky'>writingstarsinthesky</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hetalia: Axis Powers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Arthur it all depends, As canon compliant as anything else in this damn series, Blood and Injury, Gen, I mean I'm a rusame slave so, Injury Recovery, The Berwald and Alfred moments are meant to be platonic, The Ivan and Alfred moments arent ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°), World War II</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 15:55:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,610</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23748556</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingstarsinthesky/pseuds/writingstarsinthesky</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He was supposed to be the winning piece, the part of the war machine that would turn the tide of the war. They didn’t need him falling apart.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>America &amp; Russia (Hetalia), America &amp; Sweden (Hetalia)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Winter Winds</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It seems like no matter where he goes, Alfred can’t shake the winter.</p>
<p>His gun is in the snow, the butt buried in the white that’s piled around his feet, the muzzle of the gun the resting spot for his folded hands and his chin. Smoke curls idly into the snowy night, Alfred holding the cigarette with his teeth as he stares out into the dark.</p>
<p>“What on earth are you doing out here?” The voice is harsh, grating, but Alfred can hear the concern in it. Alfred glances sideways at Arthur, barely turning his head as he looks at the Brit.</p>
<p>“Watch duty.” Alfred says, lifting two fingers to hold the cigarette as he blows smoke out into the air.</p>
<p>“It isn’t your turn.”</p>
<p>“Might as well.”</p>
<p>Arthur rolls his eyes. “You’ve been hanging out with Berwald too bloody much. I almost wish you were still a chatterbox.”</p>
<p>Alfred smiles, slightly grim. “What’s there to talk about honestly.”</p>
<p>Arthur frowns, his thick brows knitting. “I dunno, maybe the whole bloody war? You’ve barely healed from that wound Kiku gave you and you’re already traipsing about Europe like nothing even happened.”</p>
<p>Arthur hesitates, looking at him. Alfred hates it when people look at him like that. Like they’re expecting him to fall apart at any moment, like they were gonna have to put him back together, as big of a bother as that would be. He was supposed to be the winning piece, the part of the war machine that would turn the tide of the war. They didn’t need him falling apart.</p>
<p>So Alfred straightens his spine, smiling brighter. All joy and sunshine, all fake. “Aw cmon Artie. You worry too much! You know I’m always up for a fight! It was just a cut on the belly anyway.” He laughs and smacks his belly, and the gash that cuts to his intestines burns. He’d vomit from the pain if it wasn’t so cold. “Besides, you’re gonna owe me drinks when it turns out I’m the hero of Europe and the pacific!”</p>
<p>Arthur rolls his eyes, but he looks a little more relieved by Alfred’s familiar tone. “You’re not gonna be the hero of anything if you freeze out here. Get back to the barracks before it gets any colder.”</p>
<p>Alfred grins, popping a quick salute to Arthur. “Right behind you Artie. Go ahead while I finish this cigarette. I know you brits are delicate!”</p>
<p>Arthur swats at him, but seems satisfied, turning his collar up. “You’d better be quick. Next time I’m sending Timo out and he’s just going to tranquilize you and drag you back.”</p>
<p>Alfred laughs, waving to him, and as soon as Arthur leaves his butt hits the snow, wheezing in pain as he holds his stomach. <em>God</em>, that was stupid. Why was he so stupid. He shouldn’t have done that.</p>
<p>“Yer going t’ get yerself killed.”</p>
<p>Alfred looks up into Berwald’s stern face, the Swedish man in a much heavier coat than the American. He reaches down, curling his gloved hands in his collar and picking him up like a naughty pup.</p>
<p>“Hey Berwald.” Alfred tries to grin, pushing up his glasses. “I like your fluffy collar. You getting some style tips from me?” To any other, Berwald’s stern expression would make them tremble and try and twist away. For Alfred, he can see the concern in the other man’s face; that or he’s just fuckin’ freezing.</p>
<p>“Yer belly ain’t healed.” Berwald grunts, still holding Alfred by the scruff of his coat. “Y’ need t’ go lie down.”</p>
<p>Alfred huffs and tries to twist, mentally weighing his options. He’s definitely strong enough to peel Berwald’s out of his collar, but his odds of getting away from a Viking in the snow of the English countryside aren’t great. Still, he sets his hands behind his head, fingers creeping towards Berwald’s fist. Couldn’t hurt to try.</p>
<p>Berwald frowns, curling his fingers tighter in his collar. “Y’ ain’t foolin’ anybody Alfred. Yer hurting.”</p>
<p>Alfred flashes that Hollywood worthy grin, one that’s landed him on more than one magazine cover. “Just a scrape big guy. Nothing somebody like me can’t handle!”</p>
<p>Berwald looks unimpressed. “Yer bleedin.”</p>
<p>Alfred glances down, and he can see the white undershirt starting to turn pink with blood, letting out a sigh. Well, there goes that.</p>
<p>Berwald shifts him with a squawk, carrying him under his arm like a bundle of wood, crunching through the snow toward the warm light of the barracks.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>.o.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Ow, ow, easy-“</p>
<p>Berwald gives him a look, laying another bandage neatly over his belly. “Y’ shouldn’t even be out here yet. Y’ need rest.”</p>
<p>Alfred huffs, pulling his jacket back on and zipping it up to hide his ample chest from curious eyes. “I’m fine dude. Just a small bombing; nothing that’s gonna keep me out of the war.”</p>
<p>“I don’t care about th’ war.” Berwald huffs. He looks mildly pained for a moment, and Alfred internally groans when he starts speaking in Swedish. This isn’t gonna be a conversation he can just brush off, not when he starts using his mother tongue. A lecture was coming. “I care about y’. Y’ve been running around like a chicken with yer head cut off since y’ got here. Y’ need t’ breathe.”</p>
<p>Alfred rolls his eyes. Of course, the same shit as always. It’s like people forgot he could read the news; like he didn’t know how bad the war effort was going, how badly Europe needed more blood and supplies and him. He could give it to them. He could give the blood he had to spare if it meant winning this war.</p>
<p>Berwald puts a hand on his shoulder to stop the protest. “ ‘M not talkin’ about America. ‘M talkin’ about Alfred.”</p>
<p>Alfred huffs impatiently. “Alfred isn’t what matters right now Berwald; we’re in a goddamn war.” He swings his legs over the sides of the cot, intent on finding something to do.</p>
<p>Berwald stops him again with a squeeze to his shoulders. “It’s okay t’ take a breath, Alfred.” He says, softly. “Y’ve got people here t’ lean on if y’ need to fall apart. And we’ll be there when yer ready to come back.”</p>
<p>Alfred looks at them, eyes darting over his face. Maybe it was a mistranslation… but he knows it’s not. He knows them, he understands them if he tries. All their people had come to him, years ago, and his head is filled with a hundred different languages even if he’s only fluent in a few.</p>
<p>Then, maybe it’s a lie. A lie to… what, exactly? Berwald was trying to keep him off the field, trying to get him to stop. Wasn’t that the opposite of what needed to happen? It was a war, a war they had to win, and Berwald was pressing for him to stay in bed. Besides, Berwald had never lied to him before. There’s a third option, but Alfred doesn’t even consider it. There’s no way his motives are less than good, absolutely not. This was Berwald, after all, who was strong and steady and cared about him. He’d always cared, even if he showed it in a strange way.</p>
<p>Alfred lets out a breath; what option was it gonna be, Jones? Why is he getting a Swedish pep talk at eleven at night in English barracks?</p>
<p>He knows. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he knows.</p>
<p>Alfred groans, unzipping his jacket and tossing it in the general direction of a chair, laying back. “Sometimes I really don’t like you.”</p>
<p>The corner of Berwald’s mouth twitches, and Alfred can hear him moving around as he closes his eyes. He was 99% sure Berwald wouldn’t stab him if he just… rested for a moment….</p>
<p> </p>
<p>.o.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Consciousness comes all at once to Alfred, suddenly aware of the soft pillows under his head, the warmth of a blanket soothing the irritation of his stomach; still hurting, but on the mend now that he’s resting. Alfred slowly opens his eyes, reveling in letting himself wake up in pieces, his eyelids feeling heavy and lazy and all of a sudden he’s tempted to just let himself slip back into sleep.</p>
<p>“Dobroye utro.”</p>
<p>Alfred nearly jumps out of his skin at the voice and hisses as his stomach burns, opening his eyes all the way in a snap. He squints, fumbling for his glasses to he can bring the large shape next to him into focus.</p>
<p>Ivan is smiling placidly, although as always there’s a slight aura of danger around the other man. He’s got his finger in a book to hold his place, his deep green uniform pulled across his broad chest. Ever present is his scarf, the ends draped over his folded legs. Alfred feels himself grow red (why are you staring at his chest, Alfred.) and turns the hiss into a huff of exasperation. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be terrorizing somebody on the eastern front or fighting a bear or something?”</p>
<p>Ivan laughs, but it sounds fake. “I am here for that big mission we are planning. It is sounding very exciting.”</p>
<p>He sounds like he’s rounding off his g’s with a sort of a k sound, and Alfred doesn’t know why that makes his heart squeeze in his chest. “Yeah I know but why are you <em>here</em>?”</p>
<p>Ivan hums. “Berwald is asking me to watch you. Your stomach could rip open with too much movement. Speaking of which-“ Ivan marks his page and sets the book aside, yanking the blanket down unceremoniously. “You need them changed.”</p>
<p>“Woah, wait, you can’t just- Jesus your hands are <em>cold</em>!”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So hetalia in the year of our lord 2020 huh the quarantine really be like that</p>
<p>Anyway I love Alfred a lot and think *smacks his chest* this bad boy can fit so much trauma</p></blockquote></div></div>
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